


The Resident

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham's non-"Imagine" writings [11]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 07:56:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: My entry for the "one quote one shot" challenge on Tumblr





	The Resident

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186743556629/the-resident-a-one-quote-one-shot)

  


_Hyderabad, April 1857_

Lady Claire Grey dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, drawing in a long, steadying breath.

It was another debilitatingly hot day. The princely city-state of Hyderabad baked in the sun of the Deccan Plateau. Temperatures soared past ninety degrees, and the heat permeated everything in the grand mansion – the plush Persian carpets, the marble floors, even the carved wooden chairs.

The Hyderabad Residency had been built some fifty years before, a grand architectural statement to signify the power and grandeur of the British Empire. Unlike most of India, Hyderabad had maintained its independence, led by the mysterious Nizams whose unimaginable wealth came directly from the diamonds and gemstones they gladly sold to greedy European buyers.

The British Resident’s job was – ostensibly – to represent the interests of the British East India Company. Ensure that commerce was smooth between Hyderabad, the British-controlled states that surrounded it, and across trade routes as far-flung as Russia, Japan, and France. The perfect Resident was the consummate diplomat – providing the Nizams reassurance of British protection in the face of threats; smoothing over disagreements with maharajahs in neighboring states; being a sympathetic ear at court.

Lord John Grey was the perfect man for the job. Raised in the aristocracy and educated at Oxford in economics and politics, he had already served stints in the diplomatic corps in Gibraltar and the Cape Colony and Singapore. He and his beautiful wife Claire – an accomplished healer and midwife who, despite lacking a formal degree, had had papers published in leading medical journals in England (no doubt due to her husband’s influence) – were the perfect high-achieving team.

Which was beneficial – for both Claire and John knew that his true mission was to report everything back to London. To be advisor to the Nizam, a de facto ambassador at his court – and above all, a spy.

Claire knew where John kept his daily journal; and copies of the reports he wrote, sweltering by candlelight, and dispatched to Whitehall; and the letters and instructions he had received in return. Every night they had talked about what was on the Nizam’s mind, his standing with the Nizam and his shifty courtiers, and what it meant for them, and what John would do with the information.

Which in retrospect was a blessing and a curse.

For Lord John Grey had died of cholera the day before. And Lady Claire Grey was alone with his secrets.

Now Claire rubbed her eyes and sat back in the rattan chair on the porch, watching the chickens scratch in the dirt.

Weighing her options.

Common wisdom held that England was home – but since the death of Uncle Lamb five years before, there was nobody to go home to. John’s brother Hal and his family would welcome her, to be sure – but she had scarcely spent any time with him. What with John’s postings abroad, she had spent perhaps two weeks total in Hal and Minnie’s company in the eight years of her marriage.

And she had built quite the name for herself in Hyderabad – not just in the small, tightly-knit circle of Westerners (mostly English businessmen, with a few French and Irish missionaries mixed in), but also in the local community. She did not care for purdah and made home visits regularly, mending wounds and examining teeth and delivering the babies she and John could not conceive.

She could eke out a life here.

But she had helped John write his reports every night. So she knew about the rebellion that had sprung up in the north. And the tension with the French army making raids in the south. Underpinned by the tenuous role women played in society – most didn’t dare venture outside without covering their bodies from top to bottom, with only her face showing, despite the sweltering heat. Not to mention the terrible stories John sometimes heard at court or from a business contact, about women who had been attacked or mutilated or worse…

“Claire?”

Something about James Fraser’s soft Scottish burr always set her at ease. Perhaps it was due to the time she and Uncle Lamb had spent traipsing around the Highlands when she was a child. Or it was Jamie’s forthright manner – surprisingly direct for a Junior Resident, whose focus should be on building a career rather than jeopardizing it with such frank and direct words.

The chair creaked as he sat down beside her; she was too drained to turn and look at him.

He cleared his throat. “I will speak plainly, because I know you’re strong enough to bear it.”

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “We need to bury him.”

Jamie sighed. “Yes. The disease, and the heat – ”

“Yes. I know.”

He paused. “I ken that you know. I was right there with you last spring, running the infirmary we set up here during the last epidemic.”

Memory flared. Masks over their faces; Jamie’s fiery red hair the only splash of color; the stench of vomit and shit and death. His dedication and unwavering support the only light amid so much darkness.

“We would bury them on the same day. And it’s already been a day since he died.” She swallowed. “Did you speak to the Reverend?”

“I did. He’ll come here, say a few words in the parlor – and then we’ll take him over to the cemetery. The grave is already dug.”

She heard movement. Opened her eyes to see Jamie kneeling in front of her.

“I am now the Acting Resident. You know the protocols better than I do, Claire – but I want you to hear it from my own lips.”

She blinked, limbs feeling so heavy.

“I gladly grant you my protection. I don’t want you to spend another night alone in this big house – I’ll move into the guest quarters. This place is too dangerous for you to be here all on your own.”

She pursed her lips. “But the servants – ”

“Are loyal, yes. But they canna protect you from everything.” His eyes darted from side to side – ensuring they were alone. “Some of the men in the village, Claire – they don’t want you healing their wives. No matter your good intentions, they see you as representing the British.”

“And there’s the rebellion in the north. I understand.”

“And the man who beat his wife and left her for dead on the street, just last week. And the panther that ate two children two weeks ago. I could go on.”

He stood. “So.”

The wheels in her mind raced. Suddenly she stood, too. “I’m staying here.”

Jamie’s brow arched. “Even after all the things I just told ye?”

She raised her chin. “I have nothing to go back to. John was my life – my family. And even with the death and disease and wild animals, I’d rather a life here than in boring old England.”

Somehow he looked even younger when he smiled.

“We’re a long way from Whitehall, Claire – you can stay here as long as you like. As long as you don’t mind sharing your quarters with a bachelor.”

Her heart raced.

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Jamie froze. “Are ye saying what I think ye’re saying?”

“I am.” Blindly she reached for his hands; effortlessly they slid into her own. “I want you to hear it from my own lips. I want to marry you, James Fraser. Today, when the Reverend comes to pray over John.”

Never had she seen a man so lost for words.

“What?” he sputtered. “We canna do that!”

“Why not?” she frowned. “I can make my own choices. So can you. Think about it – we know we work well together. We both have lives here. And I don’t hate you.”

He shook his head, incredulous. “Well, Claire, **I don’t hate you either. And there’s a good many marriages have started wi’ less than that**.”

A rooster crowed.

Jamie looked at her for a long moment, then nodded.

“Right. Let’s do it. Only Claire – I hope I willna give ye reason to regret this.”

She squeezed his hands – refreshingly cool and strong. “Let’s go inside.” 

—

_Author’s Note:_

_I was fortunate to spend three weeks in Hyderabad in March-April 2016. I visited the Nizam’s palace - the color photographs are my own._

_The Hyderabad Residency is a real place! It’s the bottom left photo in the collage at top. [Click here to read more about its amazing history!](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.firstpost.com%2Fliving%2Fas-iconic-british-residency-building-in-hyderabad-is-restored-a-look-back-at-its-monumental-history-4001499.html&t=ODUzYjNiY2Q5ODZhYjAyZGFjMGRmOGRhYzk5OTZhODdjODYwNGFkOCxobjd2Z1B2Rg%3D%3D&b=t%3AD4g0V6eDPQOnNH0JBcjUww&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F186743556629%2Fthe-resident-a-one-quote-one-shot&m=0)_


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